


Please Don't Leave Me

by Lady_Death_of_Nevada



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, WWII, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Death_of_Nevada/pseuds/Lady_Death_of_Nevada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the middle of WWII and death is in the air, when Britain's dreads become reality. What happens? Read to find out! Lots of FrUKness. Rated T for blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Don't Leave Me

Hey! I just finished watching the Hunger Games and am all depressed, so I decided to write this. My family is Jewish, and my grandmother is a Holocaust survivor from Paris, France. My grandfather fought in the War. I’ve heard lots of first hand stories about WWII and Nazi Occupied France, and figured why not write a story about it? I hope this story moves you as it moved me while I wrote it. Please enjoy!

~O~o~O~

Boom. The battlefield is filled with the sound of another bomb going off. It sounds over the noise of screams, desperate shrieks of soldiers staring death in the eyes. Gunshots can be heard, last hopeless attempts to survive. Smoke, along with the sour stench of tired, dying soldiers, fills the air, making it harder to breath than it already was. Death engulfs the world as war rages on. War, with no reason but vengeance, and stupid grudges that waste lives and time. 

This is World War II. This is the time of death. 

Europe is in a sorry state, everyone bowing down to Germany, who’s killing people left and right. Trying to reap his long sought revenge on the people, no, nations, that blamed the entire previous World War on him, sending him and his country into debt and depression. He is filled with anger, and nothing else, as he slays all, trying to create, in his mind, the perfect race. Ludwig is going mad, as his boss already has before him, and is taking advantage and hurting those who were his friends. The world is in ruins, and it seems as though it will never end.  
But Britain can’t think about that. He can’t think about any of it. Not as he sits, hopelessly trying to think of some way, any way, to save himself and his people. He’s done well so far, but he needs to do better if he wants to survive this bloodbath. That’s all he can think of, but it’s too much for any man, even a nation, to think about. He runs his fingers through his dirty hair, attempts to wipe some of the sweat off of his face with a sooty hand, and takes a deep breath before turning on the radio. He needs to escape; even if now isn’t the time. He needs to think about something, anything else, if he doesn’t want to lose his sanity.  
Instantly, his breath gets caught in his throat. He sits in disbelief, praying it isn’t true. He can’t breath, as he listens, trying to console himself. ‘No. No, it can’t be. This is a dream. It’s all fine.’ But it isn’t. This is war, and death always accompanies war. The radio repeats itself, confirming Arthur’s dreads, ‘France is quickly falling,’ A tinny voice comes from the radio, ‘Losing resources, soldiers, and hope. They are quickly approaching their end,’ Arthur shakes, eyes burning as he tries to hold back tears. France, Francis…no. But he can’t waste his time, which is already slipping away. He pushes himself up and, still shaking, runs for his horse, the only available thing to travel on, and shoots off.   
‘Francis…wait. Please, hold on. I won’t let you leave me here.’  
The cold wind beats against his face as he wills his stead to go faster. All around him, for miles and miles and miles, all you can see is despair. Blood and dead soldiers litter the ground, along with other men who are about to join their friends. Faster, faster, he needs to get there before it’s to late. And finally he sees him. And feels as though his whole world is just crumbling around him.  
“Francis,” The words are stuck in his throat, but he wills them to come out, “Francis. Francis! FRANCIS!” He jumps off of his horse and over to a pool of blood with a body in the middle of it. England treads through the blood, trying to ignore it as he keeps calling his love’s name, falling to his knees when he reaches his side, “No! NO!” He cries out, gripping the sides of his head. There lies Francis, with an open wound on his stomach about the size of a bowling ball, with fresh blood still pouring out of it. The rest of his body is covered in bruises and scars, cuts and dirt. A pained expression turns to that of a smile,  
“Mon amour, you’re…you’re here,” He struggles to say, coughing up more blood as he pushes the words out of himself. Tears are now escaping from Arthur’s eyes, running down his red cheeks.   
“Francis! Francis, what the bloody hell happened!? Who, who did-” He was stopped by the Frenchman’s shushing noises.   
“Shh. Not so much noise. They’ll come, and-and hurt us,” Fear creeping back into his eyes.   
“They’ll…” He mutters, before gently sweeping France into his arms and helping him onto his horse. He needs to treat Francis’ wounds, but not here. Not in France’s home, where the war is raging around them. They need to escape this ciaos, even though both men know that that is impossible. But Arthur needs to try, holding onto his friend and steering his horse forward, trying to search for somewhere, anywhere even remotely safe. He has to.   
Finally, he comes across an old, abandoned mill, one that’s covered in moss and falling in on itself, far away from the noise of the world. Carrying Francis into the mill, he carefully sets him down, and begins ripping off his jacket, followed by his shirt. He remembers a time when they’d do this lovingly, when everything was perfect in the world. But that had been ages ago.   
Arthur gagged as he saw the bloody mess that was France’s stomach. He was momentarily frozen with dread, as thoughts of impending failure filled his head. ‘There’s no way I can save him. It’s to late. I’m to late.’ He was shaken from his state by Francis’ worried words.  
“Arthur? Mon cher?” He whispered, breaking the silence. Arthur snapped back to reality, biting his lip as he remembered the wound.  
“Stay here,” He commanded as he stood up and ran back to his horse for First Aid supplies. He could hear France chuckling, muttering,   
“I’m not going anywhere,” Britain stopped abruptly at his horse, pulling at his saddlebags for his kit, when he finally found it. Opening it, he stopped breathing, staring wide-eyed at the short roll of gauze and two bandages left inside. That was it. He’d used everything else. He shook his head, reminding himself that Francis was still alive, waiting for him. He grabbed a canteen and ran back to his side, pulling off his own jacket and pouring some water on it.  
“I’m sorry,” He apologized in advance as he gently dabbed at the wound, causing Francis to tremble in agony and groan. Britain hated himself for making France go through more pain, but reminded himself that he was helping him. He dabbed again, receiving another cry from France, who was trying and failing to stay strong. He’d used up his strength. England grabbed the gauze and began to wrap Francis’ stomach, promptly helping him to drink from the canteen.  
“You know what would be nice now?” France questioned, “Wine,” He chuckled, immediately regretting it as his hand shot to his stomach, and then moaning in pain from the sensation his hand on his wound caused. Arthur pulled Francis into his arms, allowing him to rest his head on his lap as he clutched his hands.   
“Stop it, or you’re going to hurt yourself even more,” He spoke as he kissed Francis’ forehead, running his fingers through soft, dirty, blonde locks consolingly. Blue eyes losing their light met worried, caring, green ones.   
“It gets worse than this?” he asked jokingly, but Arthur could detect a hint of seriousness in his voice. The Frenchman squeezed the Brit’s hand harder, “My people are being slaughtered one by one. Ludwig is dragging them off to his death camps and ghettos. His men are marching my streets, MY streets! Arresting and killing MY people! It’s the same for Poland, Denmark, Lithuania, Estonia, Norway-”  
“I know,” Arthur cut in, seeing where this was headed, “It’s the same for all of us. He’s forced Austria to give up his land and is killing his people just as quickly as ours, if quicker. This is war, though. This is to be expected.”  
“No. He hasn’t gained control of you,” Francis shakily reached up and cupped Arthur’s cheek, staring into his eyes, “Stay strong. You can’t let him win. You have to survive this, after I’m-”  
“NO! You’re not-”  
“Stop lying to yourself. This is the end for me. Look at me. I’m a bloody mess. I can’t even move!” France spoke, soft yet stronger than anyone could’ve expected from such a heavily wounded person.   
“No! You’re not dead yet! You won’t die! You’re not leaving me here! You’re going to stay, and we’ll win this war, and then we can be happy again. We can go and have a nice picnic with Alfred and Matty like we used to every Friday! Remember? There’s still hope! You won’t die!” Arthur cried as tears raced down his cheeks.   
“No. My hope is gone. Tous partis.” He slowly brought Britain’s face down to his, “But you still have hope. Don’t lose your hope. You can win this. You will win this. For me.”  
“NO!” England shrieked as his lips clashed down with France’s in a passionate kiss. He held him tight, tears dripping onto the Frenchman’s face, “No. No,” He kept saying, as he held onto Francis, gripping him tight in a desperate attempt to keep him on Earth.  
“Je t’aime. I love you. Don’t lose hope, mon Angleterre. Stay strong. I love you.”

 

Don’t lose hope.

~O~o~O~

Mon amour – my love  
Tous partis – all gone  
Mon cher – my dear  
Je t’aime – I love you  
Mon Angleterre – My England


End file.
